Dark Times for a Spy
by Agent N. Romanoff
Summary: Agent Natasha Romanoff is one of S.H.I.E.L.D.s top agents and everyone learned to rely on her and her abilities. But what happens when the accidents and injuries pile up? Will the Black Widow collapse or be strong enough to carry on? A certain pair of hawkeyes sure tries to protect her against the upcoming storm... Contains mild pain/torture scenes, rating might change later on.
1. A Short Introduction to Pain

So this happens to be my first fanfiction :)

I'm not sure if this should be a **oneshot or not**, so you guys should **help me decide**.  
I don't have a beta but I proofread everything at least three times, so whoever finds mistakes gets to keep them. With that said, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, ... (usual talk),  
I'm not a native English speaker and it could happen that I use terms, phrases and idioms the wrong way. I apologize in advance.  
Also, this chapter (or the story in general) will have minor to major pain/torture scenes, so continue at your own risk.

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„Hey, Coulson!" Clint caught up with Agent Coulson as he sped at a quick pace past him through the empty halls. As he got no answer or any other form of reaction he continued. "Do you happen to know where I can find Natasha?"

Coulson, in his spotless suit as always, just shot a quick glance at him before he answered. "Agent Romanoff was called to lead an interrogation not half an hour ago." Well knowing that this answer wouldn't satisfy Agent Barton, he quickly added. "You should find her in … Well I'm heading just there, you can follow me if you want." Coulson knew that Clint Barton sometimes lost his orientation, despite being employed at S.H.I.E.L.D. for a long time by now. But he would never openly admit this, he clung to life after all.

Clint didn't reply, he just followed him silently. When they reached the facilities used for interrogations, Coulson led him to the darkened adjacent room. Clint could see Natasha trough a one-way mirror. She wore her fiery red hair in a loose bun and her clothes were of the formal S.H.I.E.L.D. suit instead of her usual Black Widow suit; the blank and ungiving expression on her face was the same as always though.

She sat across another woman who was entirely unknown to Clint. Lean but well built, tall with black hair and dark eyes. To the question of her person, Coulson just gave him a name and an unlabeled folder, which he quickly scanned through.

Gillian Speight, 25 years old, mediocre spy … but additionally an assassin with a kill count of confirmed thirty-seven in her suspected two or three years of career. "Not bad." Clint mumbled, but nothing compared to his partner. He tossed the file aside and continued watching Natasha doing her work.

After about twenty minutes it still went on and on and Natasha hadn't gotten any important information out of her, but that didn't seem to bother her. She kept her cool and there were no flaws in her perfect poker face. Suddenly there was a rapid change. Clint hadn't listened intently on what had been said, but it had gotten Natasha's opposite mad. It was then when he noticed to his dismay that Gillian Speight was in no way bound or immobilized. There were just the both of them, two chairs and a table in the otherwise small, empty room. He could do nothing but watch as she stood up, grabbed Natasha by her throat and lifted her up against a wall leaving her feet dangling in the air. Something was off, he realized immediately. Why didn't Natasha do anything? She just grabbed Gillian by her hands where she held her and coughed faintly.

Clint was just about to step in and kill that nasty threat named Gillian Speight when his eyes landed on Natasha's – though that couldn't be possible, it was a one-way mirror after all. However she shook her head the slightest way, showing them not to interrupt her. Clint and Coulson stood there, watching as her head began to turn red of the lack of oxygen. Gillian cursed her, laughed at her. "You are the weakest agent I've ever come to see." she hissed at her. Then she dragged Natasha's limp body back to the table. As if strangling her wasn't enough, she started banging her head against the metal table. With every _smack_ she made more fun of her weakness. Clint clenched his fists, he desperately to step in and help his partner.

"Do you really think…" –_smack-_ "that I couldn't kill you?" –_smack- _"Your weakness is disgusting!" -s_mack-_ "Even Alkaev was stronger than you!" –_smack-. _ Clint's head shot up. Vikentiy Alkaev's death was the one of the main issues of the interrogation – Speight's last kill before she was caught by agents of S.H.I.E.L.D – red-handed, quite literally at that.

Blood had started to drip out of Natasha's nose and her eyes were whirling around wildly. "Before I killed him he told me every dirty secret about his stupid dirty company." –s_mack-_ "Their connections to the mafia," smack "their fiscal evasion," _–smack-_ "and their bribing" –_smack-_ "And after all this I slowly killed him, but not slowly enough. Your men caught me! The same men that seem to have forgotten you now. Where are they? Shouldn't they protect their weakest member? Or has your death no meaning to them?" Speight had stopped banging Natasha's head against the hard surface of the table.

Just when Clint thought the beating stopped, Speight took Natasha's right arm in hers. Clint couldn't tell what exactly she did after that – her back was turned to the mirror – but a nasty crackling sound was heard. "Well at least you don't cry and scream like him. I wish I could've told Wyman what a crybaby Alkaev had been." Natasha's head perked up.

"Wyman as in Darell Wyman?" Confused, Speight stared at Natasha. "I'll take that as a yes. Thank you very much for your cooperation." Relieved Clint watched as she whirled Speight around, zipped her hands together with small zip-handcuffs and in return for all the beatings bashed her head against the table. Just that Speight immediately went unconscious. Without another word, Natasha left the room. Seconds later, she entered the adjacent room where Clint and Coulson where waiting for her.

"Hey Barton, I didn't know I had you as audience. Coulson you should maybe send in a medic for her, I'm quite sure she suffers a concussion." Coulson looked in the mirror to see Speight lie sprawled out on the floor and instantly rushed out of the room with his cell at his ears. Natasha wiped the blood from her nose and mouth by the way-ish. "I should also go see a medic and get my arm fixed before they'll have to re-break it. Last time I was too late and I hate when they have to do this."

Clint nodded and accompanied her. "Maybe you should use another technique next time. You know there are other ways to get to hear their stories." Natasha just let out a huff at this and inside Clint knew they just called her in for the tricky cases, where nobody knew how to crack them. He had watched her put someone through the wringer numerous times but lately her tactics became more and more drastically and violent.

"Whatever gets the job done Barton. Now hurry up, I don't have too much time." she muttered, hurry evident in her voice. Together they rushed to the medical facilities, amusingly far away from the interrogation rooms. Clint watched Natasha and how she cradled her right arm (which was bent in the wrong direction). It must've hurt like hell but he didn't say a word. He knew how she hated when someone tried to be caring and sympathetic.

Finally they made it there. Apparently Agent Coulson had already announced their arrival. Two doctors awaited them. "Make it quick guys; I have a mission to carry out." The medics knew better than to object Natasha Romanoff aka _THE_ Black Widow. So they just did their job. Clint stayed with his partner when she was being x-rayed. "Well, agent Romanoff, I have good news and bad news. Good news first: it's a simple fracture, nothing bad, the bones just cracked at one point and shifted a little. The bad news is that with your special … _abilities_ … it's already started to heal and the bone didn't connect evenly."

Natasha sighed. "You don't need to go on with explanations. I know what that means. Could you just hurry up?" Clint moved closer to where she sat. Sometimes – mostly when she had to deal with compound or open fractures and they needed to be re-broken – she liked to hold his hand. According to her re-breaking bones "_wasn't a very pleasant feeling_". She never cried or even flinched but when the pain got to her she had taken to squeezing his hand. After really nasty procedures she also liked to down some of her favorite vodka.

"Barton you should probably go and pack your gear, Coulson told me we depart at twenty hundred." It was obvious that she didn't want him to stay, however Clint didn't care. He knew that she'd feel the pain nonetheless. She always told him she couldn't feel this "_minor_" pain due to her training under the _Reed Room_. Clint knew this wasn't true. She was just trained to ignore this pain, work through it, instead of not feeling it at all.

"I'm staying Natasha. If you don't want to hold my hand that's fine, but don't make me go. We're partners." It'd cost him time and trouble to get to use her forename and he was kind of proud of this privilege. Natasha just rolled her eyes.

"Okay Miss Romanoff … " One of the doctors, the younger one, grew impatient due to her body's enhanced healing and regeneration time.

"For you it's still Agent." Natasha's voice was cold and Clint inwardly thought she could feel his stress and reacted according to that.

"I … I'm sorry _Agent_ Romanoff. Are you ready? On the count of three." Natasha adjusted her arm and took a deep breath then held it in. "One. Two …" A disgusting crunch/crack later the two doctors started hastily working on her arm – now broken again.

"What the fuck was that? Are you fools unable to count?!" Clint was as surprised at Natasha's uproar, as surprised as the medics were.

"Well … I thought I'd go with the element of surprise to make it hurt less … " The responsible doctor tried to explain.

Natasha returned to not responding and it made Clint thinking. _Maybe she really did feel pain like everybody else. She just could handle it better. And she was prepared for pain at three, not two. _The more Clint thought about it the more it made sense and his respect for her rose even more. He just couldn't understand why she wouldn't simply admit to feeling this pain.

After five more minutes they were finished and a grumpy Natasha with an elastic bandage around her arm was allowed to leave. "Let's get ready. We only have three hours left and I want to look into those files. You better not forget your night vision this time Barton."

"It was just that one time will you please forget to mention it every time?" With a chuckle, Clint followed her to their quarters. He'd follow her everywhere.


	2. Daydreams of a Foreigner

So, I've decided to make this more than a oneshot.  
I already have some ideas ready and I'll try to update once a week (though I'll have finals until in three weeks, so let's see if that works out).This chapter is more the link between a oneshot and a more lengthy and developed story and there'll be definitively more action.

Also, in this chapter and maybe in the following one's there'll be sinlge phrases in Italian for which I used several translators. If it should still be false, I apologize!

For now: enjoy and review if you liked it / have suggestions for me :)

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Time had flown by as their current mission went on. Their job was clear, easy and a run-of-the-mill for both of them. Nonetheless they were prepared as always. Natasha had read the files over and over again, starting before the flight and still going through it when they long since were on their plane to Europe. It was something she obsessed over. Every time. Clint stopped questioning it, probably she just wanted to be prepared.

Their target was an old man, leading a successful and treacherous company at day and acting as a very high ranked member of some infamous mafia group at night … guess where, in Italy. Oliviero Biondo, sixty-three years old, overweight, white sparse hair, had a preference for noble tailored suits, blablabla. In short: everthing that came to Clint's mind when hearing the word _Mafiosi_. He laughed when he let Natasha fill him in on it.

"Oh come on that really _is_ a cliché and you cannot possibly deny it." He laughed and even Natasha had to grin.

"Maybe. Anyway back to our topic. Our mission's goal is … well let me see …" Clint watched Natasha intently as she flipped through the heap of papers. When she really focused on papers and her eyes skimmed the lines her eyebrows sometimes twitched, much to Clint's amusement. "Ah yeah, if possible captured alive for interrogations, but it states his death wouldn't be a tragedy. Underground organization should be crippled …? Is this an invitation to go on a rampage?" Natasha allowed herself another grin. A little action was always welcome to her. "Where was I … there's a little side note. Former investigations on him showed he is never without at least four bodyguards." Not suspicious at all, Clint thought to himself. "He lives in a big mansion, only relative close by is his son. Gianmaria Biondo, in his early twenties, not much info about him. This altogether isn't very much either. But well I think we'll manage."

Clint nodded. Actually he didn't really care for this information. Who his son was, what color his eyes had … who cares? The only reason he still listened was because he adored Natasha's rambling. It was cute when she got all worked up about some minor details. When she stopped talking and there was silence between them, Clint occupied himself with watching her discreetly whenever she wasn't watching.

Natasha sat in the comfortable leather seat that joined his with a small table between them. However her body was slightly twisted so she had a better view over the aisle on the plane. Even if it was just both of them plus the pilot, Clint knew that she wanted to be able to observe everything. Apart from that she looked relaxed … well maybe just calm. He wasn't so sure if he'd ever seen her completely relax anywhere.

She wore her usual Black Widow suit that emphasized her enticing feminine curves. He gulped at the thought of unsuspecting "_victims_" being seduced by this marvelous femme fatale. He pushed the unprofessional thought away from him.

Her feet were delicately crossed as always, hiding in her almost knee-high black boots, slightly bobbing up and down now and then. On flights she was never completely geared up, with her suit missing the two belts around her thighs with the holsters for her favorite guns and the waistbelt with her other tactical equipment.

Yet she wasn't unarmed, Clint knew very well. He was sure she was never – at any given time – without at least a gun and some knives, even though mostly she wouldn't even need them. Her hands that stuck in her short leather gloves were deadly enough for ninety per cent of all cases of fights. And then there still was her Widow's Bite on either hand. He had had never ever seen her without them, sometimes he wondered if they were glued to her.

"Ladies and gents, get ready. In about ten minutes I'll take this bird down and I want you to buckle up." The pilot's voice sounded through the intercom. "I know you won't listen to me and for all I don't care but I'm required by law to at least remember you guys to do so." Their pilot, Tommy, had flown them everywhere. They'd worked together for a long time and Clint knew that his rambling was sarcastic-ironic. Natasha on the contrary, employed at S.H.I.E.L.D. for a mere year and a half now … Clint had doubts whether she could distinguish Tommy's joking and Tommy's professional voice.

"Let's get this party started." Clint said and winked at his partner. Few minutes later, they stepped out of the business plane (not the quinjet to maintain a low profile) into the warming midday sun in Italy. "Or well … we could always just take a short nap you know?" Though Clint knew his halfhearted suggestion would be rejected in an instant, he could always give it a try.

"Don't be silly, Barton. We have a lot of work to do and it'd be best if we started yesterday. Now come on, let's find us some hotel, check in and get you some coffee to bypass your jetlag." And with that the confident Natasha Romanoff strode off. She had changed her clothes five minutes prior to their arrival; the casual wear (washed-out jeans and a deep blue hoodie paired with reflective pilot glasses) was odd to Clint's eyes.

About two pm their small amount of stuff was unpacked (at least Clint's, Natasha usually lived out of her small duffel bag) in their three-roomed accommodation, which contained a bedroom, a small bath and some kind of living room with just a TV and a couch of sand-colored linen in it. "Come to think of it, why should we take out that old fart if we could just erase the head of the crew? Why is he so important?" Clint gave voice to his concerns.

"Don't know, didn't ask. The file says he's our target so arguments are superfluous." Natasha never questioned the motives. Clint figured it didn't matter to her and given what he knew about her training, she wasn't exactly raised to be a freethinker. Thinking about her past made him sad and sickened and from all she had told them at S.H.I.E.L.D. and she'd probably just scratched the surface.

"Okay so what's the deal? We have multiple mission targets: capture – or respectively and with no other choice kill him – as well as cripple this subsidiary mafia-group which could entail infiltrating them before. My question, what comes first?" Clint had gotten used to have his partner figure out a perfect plan. When it came to strategic thinking, nobody was fit to hold a candle to Natasha Romanoff.

"If we take care about the mafia first, we'd have to capture or kill him in the process or short after or else he'll defect in a trice. Capturing or killing him first and then immediately trying to infiltrate them would be sheer suicide … or at least not a walk in the park. And we don't have the time until it's all water under the bridge. I suggest we start right about now wrangling our way in. Oh and I almost forgot to ask: _Come è buono il tuo italiano?_ (How good is your Italian?)"

Natasha sighed as Clint shot her a confused look. "I guess it's up to me. And you'll cover me from the outside. Now let's go I could kill for some lasagna." Clint obliged immediately, knowing very well that Natasha was one to take the gloves off (or rather put them on) quickly when it came to fine cuisine.

Later, sitting outside a restaurant around the corner, Natasha happily dug into her food while Clint contended with simple coffee. They sat in the bright sun, both enjoying the good weather and the warmth. Eventually she took out her cell, though not the one she'd gotten from S.H.I.E.L.D. for missions. "What? Am I not allowed to bring my own?" she snapped at his questioning look. She could be quite irritating sometimes, from happy to enraged in a blink of the eye. With a shrug she dialed a number from her memory and put the cell to her ear. Her eyes avoided his as she started talking in Italian, sounding more and more upset as time passed – though the many vowels could be the culprit.

"Well, looks like I'm in." She said smiling after the call. "An old friend of mine owed me. Still does, though." Clint didn't even try to get to know the name or any other detail. He'd given up about getting to know her. If she wanted to share something with him she'd tell him on her own.

"So? How long will we have to wait for them to accept you? A week, a month? Please tell me this isn't a year-ish thing." Clint wasn't the type of asset S.H.I.E.L.D. would use for long-term missions. If this turned out to be longer than expected, he'd consider asking for extraction for both of them.

"Pf, don't be silly Barton. Today at ten in the evening I'll attend some gathering, my friend will vouch for me. The rest should be rather easy." It took a moment for Clint to follow up. "So you have a friend or an old acquaintance in there? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He got no answer (what was to be expected) as Natasha suddenly motioned for a waiter to pay the bill. Since they got to Italy she'd taken care of nearly everything with her perfect Italian. There wasn't even a notable accent, and listening to her was a pleasant pastime for Clint.

Momentarily forgetting his surroundings , his mind started wandering. He imagined what being on holiday with Natasha must be like. Not business-like or anything, just doing whatever they wanted – traveling together. The possibilities were virtually endless. He couldn't name a language she didn't have down pat. He imagined sunny days with Natasha on his side, playing his tourist guide. He imagined them laughing together because they could, because they had no job to see to. Clint was sure it wasn't an impossible thing, with his S.H.I.E.L.D. payment not being the worst and his love for traveling. However his partner would surely thwart his plans. Taking measure of her, he could tell she'd not put down her job for such trivial things. Not the Natasha he knew. Maybe there was a side of her he didn't know, and that wasn't even improbable but Clint guessed he'd never get to know that. She never shared much with him, her feelings, thoughts and emotions closed off far away under her empty surface.

He sighed, banning those thoughts yet again. He couldn't afford any kind of personal issues or longings on missions. Being back in reality, a sad smile crossed his face. Tonight their job would progress. And after that their next one, and the following one and so on. His life consisted of it and mentally he shook his head. When he was a kid he imagined his future to be brighter than this. His dream job was certainly not killing people for a living.

"Barton?" Clint winced as Natasha pulled him out of his thoughts by waving her hands in front of his face. "I said: will you please stand up? We have things to take care of if you can remember!" Quickly he stood up, almost upsetting the small wooden table and spilling the rest of his coffee over it in the process. "Scusi! Scusi!" He repeated over and over again one of the only words he knew in this complex language to the waiter and hastened to catch up to his partner who was already strolling away – not looking back to him. _Would she ever recognize him as an equal part of their working relationship? _


	3. Complications

Thanks for the nice reviews :)  
I'm happy that I could upload this so fast, despite studying and all.  
I hope you enjoy and maybe you can review if you liked it or if you have suggestions for improvement!

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The rain had started falling a few minutes ago but Clint was soaking wet nonetheless. Wearing his light tactical suit eased the weight on his shoulders just up to a certain extent. Yet he lay flat on the roof, not moving an inch. His eyes were focused on his partner through his rifle scope the whole time. Twenty minutes ago Natasha had set off to the venue, meeting her mysterious acquaintance and the rest of the gang. Her red hair was easy to spot – even this far away (the nearest higher building was a bit secluded from where Natasha was) and even when it'd turned a dark auburn from the falling water.

She was all alone, waiting for them to show up but both of them knew she was being monitored at ground level somewhere. Another ten minutes later, six men approached her. Even Clint couldn't tell where they suddenly came from. One guy – to Clint's astonishment not older than Natasha – walked up to her, staying by her side. Through his partner's well hidden earpiece he could hear them speak though that didn't help him much – it was all in Italian. However this wasn't of importance for him as he sensed the other five had all drawn their guns. Clint's finger on the trigger twitched, he didn't like when she was in danger.

After she handed them her dark black gun by her own choice, they frisked her quite harshly but Natasha didn't seem to have a problem with that. Given that they took their time and yet weren't able to detect the little device in her ears, Clint had to chuckle. They disappeared together with Natasha in an awaiting black painted limo and he was sure everyone but her was armed. What he also knew was that she'd kick each of their asses if she wished to. Silently he got up and made his way down to the ground, his eyes never leaving his watch.

When he had turned Natasha in at S.H.I.E.L.D. a mere half and a year ago, she was given the choice: join them or die. Of course the _Black Widow_ was too proud to let them add her to their trophy list of killed threats. When she'd chosen to become one of their (best) assets, they implanted a small tracker under the skin of her neck. When Clint was made to be her partner in _Strike Team Delta _they gave him one of the counterparts of the tracker –implemented in his watch – so he'd know where she was should she bolt.

After some months he had learned to trust her enough to tell her of his watch. She had taken kindly to it and even included the feature into their mission plans, like this one. Clint watched the green dot on the radar move away from him at a steady pace underlined by a steady beeping. North-east seemed to be the general direction. During running he dismantled the bigger parts of his weapon and placed them in his casual looking duffel bag.

When the beeping stopped he slowed his pace as he hastened through dark alleys of the big city. He was approximately two blocks from her location. It was when he climbed up the next best fire escape that his earpiece sprang to life with a rustle. He stopped in his tracks. Normally Natasha would've shut it off to avoid it from being detected due to the white noise that occurred occasionally. Switching it on could only mean two things: she'd already finished her job or she was in trouble and Clint sensed it was the latter.

"Natasha?" He didn't dare raise his voice in the arisen silence. "Natasha please respond!" He climbed up the rest to reach the flat roof. Jumping from one vault to the next he looked for the one she could be in. Only one stood out, over twelve stories high but no lights turned on except two, no cars on the parking spots but a deep-level garage and far too quiet for a normal tenement. He settled on the opposite roof, assembled his rifle with swift, skilful movements and activated his night vision. "Natasha, if you can hear me, please respond! Are you okay?" Their code for _everything alright_ was to cough twice, but nothing was to be heard from her. "If I don't hear from you in the next three minutes I'm going in, so respond if you don't want me to blow our cover!" Panic rose bright in his chest. It was a deep and stifling feeling and he could feel his heartbeat go faster by the second. He scanned the lighted windows for signs of life but it was probably just some mock-up.

"Cl … " He could hear Natasha clear her throat. The following was almost too fast for him to catch. "Clint! Echo Alfa Ten!" He could hear someone (presumably her) getting beaten und a muffled gasp. Just then his brain started working again. _Echo Alfa Ten_ – a situation with one or more agents being held captive, ten for the number of armed forces. It made him thinking – why couldn't the infamous Black Widow handle ten armed men? Were they especially skilled? And how did she blow her cover this fast?

"I'm on my way. Hold on!" On his way in he dumped his rifle and switched to his gun. It was dark but fortunately he had his night vision. Years of instinct told him to look for her in the cellar not in the higher levels of the building. The more guards he took out on his way there the more it reassured him in his choice but he knew he needed to work faster. There were only two possibilities: they interrogated her before killing her or they just wanted to get rid of her. If it was the latter he could only hope he wasn't too late.

After rounding the next corner of the dark and unfamiliar place he could hear them, voices, slaps – sometimes higher then dull again. He knew it meant Natasha was being tortured but relief washed trough him. At least that meant she was alive. Following the sounds he quickly discovered an old iron door guarded by three men, those poor men who didn't know what had overcome them in the moment before their soundless death. Taking a deep breath he kicked the door in at full tilt while never lowering his gun.

The scenery that spread before his eyes was so well-known to him that it horrified him that it didn't horrify him. Natasha was tied to a chair, blood trickling from her head which hung down, allowing her fiery hair to cover her face but it was obvious that she was knocked out. Her arms were bound firmly behind her back. But the highest blood loss came from a wound on her leg; her already dark suit had a big darker spot soaked with her blood. Clint grunted when he saw the bone sticking through the open skin, eventually the scene did get to him.

All this he observed in less than two seconds but enough for the man sitting next to Natasha to drive a knife through her upper leg – the uninjured one. It went in like a hot knife in butter, almost to the hilt and the grin the man gave Clint turned his stomach. Remembering he had to fulfil his duties as Natasha's partner he aimed his gun at him – he seemed to be the one in charge. But before his finger could pull the trigger the man spoke up, in Clint's language but broke and with a strong accent.

"You not shoot if you want her alive. I gave her strong neurotoxin. She is as powerful as a bull, needed to give her more than anyone else I encountered." Clint didn't know what to do. If the man was right – it would at least explain why she was unconscious and not fighting back. Quickly contemplating his options, he lowered his gun. "What do you want you sick fuck?" He more or less spat out in his frustration. He needed medics to look at her wounds as soon as possible and it bothered him that he went in without calling for backup. Nobody even knew where they were and what situation they were currently facing.

"We don't want … trouble from you Yankees. Our business is not yours. I tried to get information from her but she don't tell, but I know you from America. Tell your boss to leave us alone and I give you the antidote."

"And how do I know you don't blow this? How do we proceed from here?" The mission was long forgotten to Clint, all that counted now was to bring his partner out of here. Coulson or Fury could take it out on him, he didn't care.

"I and my men will go now and I leave you here with her. You see this box here? In it is the antidote. It has a timer, fifteen minutes from now. It takes another five minutes to take effect. When you reach the surface we be gone. You don't find us again. Capiche?" He didn't wait for Clint to reply and left. Clint could only wait and hope the mint green serum in the small iron container with thick glass on the sides and a timer on top would remedy Natasha's state. While he waited he checked on her pulse – slower than normal but steady. What bothered him more was her skin, much paler than usual and the blood that still trickled from head and both legs. Clint didn't dare move the knife, knowing he could do more damage than help her but he loosened and untied the firm ropes around her hands. He would have to carry her up all the way but she was so lightweight that he couldn't care less.

The countdown showed that two more minutes remained before he could get to work when suddenly she stirred and she lifted her head with a muffled cough. "Clint?" Her eyes showed her confusion as she saw Clint squatted down on her side.

"It's all good Natasha, don't worry. Try not to move too much and please don't pull the knife out." For once she obliged his request after examining her injuries and the sharp metal object sticking in her thigh. "What's this countdown for?" She asked as the last seconds counted down. Clint didn't answer right away, prying the box open as it finally read _00:00:00_.

"_Don't tou…!_" Clint took the small bottle out of the box, the same second as Natasha screamed something at him, but he shouldn't know what it was because the next things happening where happening to quick – even for his eponymous eyes.

What he witnessed was a low rumbling and a spate of explosions that followed immediately afterwards. The solid ground began shaking and so did his vision, so massively he couldn't focus on anything anymore. He remembered thinking the ceiling was hanging too low, until he realized it was crashing down on them. Then everything went pitch-black.

Upon opening his eyes he sensed he was surrounded by darkness so he dug up a flashlight from his pockets. Switching it on he almost suffered a heart attack. Natasha's face was mere inches from his away, a thin stream of blood running down from her lips. Her eyes showed pure surprise, her stomach showed a thick rebar, poking angry through her torn suit. Neither of them remembered how she had gotten up with her injured legs and when exactly she had placed herself defensively above Clint's body to protect him from the falling pieces of concrete, dust and other things.

"Don't worry, everything will be alright. Don't look down. Look into my eyes. I will fix this, I promise." He talked to soothe her but probably to calm himself down too. For once he was completely clueless. How would he get both of them out of there alive?

More blood trickled down her chin as she tried talking, splatters of blood sprinkling his face. "Don't promise what you can't keep Clint." She flashed him her trademark half-grin, only with her teeth now being coated in red before her eyes closed and her smile faded.


	4. Of Fault and Gratitude

Hey guys :)  
Here's a new chapter for you!

If I used some wrong terms or used them in the wrong way, feel free to correct them for yourselves.  
This'll be the first time you get to read the story from different views.

I'd be happy about some nice reviews ;)

* * *

He didn't know how he had gotten them out of there, but they say desperation and determination get things done. When he emerged from the collapsed building with Natasha's limp body draped around his shoulders he immediately called for backup, medics and extraction all together, not caring which of them Coulson would send to him. His feet wanted to give in underneath him but he refused to give up on his efforts.

Natasha and he were picked up by some men of the rescue team that was already at the former building – the remainders now being a complete ruin – as soon as they spotted them. They gestured hastily and rambled something in Italian, Clint just pointed to his partner and made it clear to them that she needed immediate medical attention. Somehow the knife was still embedded in her thigh but he was too tired to explain their situation to them. He was given a blanket and they wanted to lead him away so he could get rest or medical attention or whatever. Clint protested so long until they understood. Compared to Natasha his injuries were absurdly minor. Her last words still echoed in his head, every detail etched into his mind. He could've grinned at the fact that as of recently she would call him by his first name when she was in a hectic situation or in trouble. He liked how she made his name sound with her ever so smooth voice. It was just that he was too tired and too worried about her to even think of smiling.

He sat there, occupying his thoughts with those details so he wouldn't have to think of all the bad things. Like that they just tried resuscitating her – successful after the fourth try, or what would happen if she wouldn't ma… No, he didn't want to name that possibility. There was no chance his partner could leave him alone in this bitter world!

Fortunately the sound of a landing chopper pulled him out of his thoughts. It didn't surprise him how fast they appeared. He figured S.H.I.E.L.D. would've deployed medics and backup nearby. After they inspected the situation and tried to talk to a non-responsive Clint they had taken over explaining to the local action forces who they were and for which organization they all worked. Ten minutes later, Clint sat in the chopper, which was on the way to a quinjet, which in turn would fly them home to the helicarrier. Natasha's lifeless body lay sideways on a stretcher, provisory IVs attached to her arm. Nobody dared touching the knife or the rebar that he had somehow broken off when he'd brought her out of the collapsed cellar. The only thing reassuring him she was still living was the monotone beeping of the heart rate monitor and even if he wasn't religious in any form he prayed to all the gods that might be out there that she'd make it.

The flight was short and silent, so was the one in the quinjet. The aircraft wasn't their usual one, no luxury and no Tommy but Clint didn't care. His eyes and his mind were fixated on Natasha, who still lay on the stretcher. Two medics were with him, regardless of their uselessness.

Too many hours for Natasha's health later the jet landed and doctors rushed her into the OR instantly. Dull and weary, Clint also made his way to the waiting room. He wanted to stay close to her, even if he couldn't be in the same room with her. Coulson approached him on deck of the helicarrier and Clint braced himself for the scolding and shouting he thought were about to come. But his handler caught him off guard as he hugged him tightly. Clint tensed upon the unexpected turn but relaxed. He was tired, he was anxious, his muscles were sore to the limit and it was just what he needed in that moment – even if he would never openly admit it. "She's going to be fine. She must." He mumbled more to himself than to Coulson who just tried to reassure him with patting his back. Eventually they parted and they both set off to the waiting room in the medical bay without another word.

They both took a seat and Clint's superior started talking to ease the heavy silence that had built up. "Don't worry about Fury, I'll handle it. You did the right thing Barton. Family comes first." Clint didn't know what he meant with family – did he see them as the couple Clint wished they would be or did he refer to S.H.I.E.L.D. members being a big family altogether? He didn't care enough to question it aloud so he just nodded in approval.

"I guess now it's up to the doctors and her enhancers. God, Coulson, it's entirely my fault. Hadn't I triggered that stupid and obvious trap we now wouldn't have to sit here." Upon Coulson's questioning look he started telling the details of their aborted and long-forgotten mission. His voice was blunt as was his report, just like his insides felt.

If she died it would be his fault. His fault he could never see her marvelous eyes again, the eyes that fascinated him beyond limit, turning between a bluish green like the ocean on sunny summer days and grey green, just as sage leaves when the light was colder. Sometimes when the sun set and he caught her gaze into far distance they would even turn a light hazel, remembering him of damp autumn mornings.

It would be his fault he wouldn't get to see her adorable snub nose again, her lips that would twitch ever so slightly when she tried hard to suppressed a laugh, her delicate eyebrows that could carry on a conversation on their own, her curled up fiery red hair that would bounce up and down with every move she made. His mistake she would never call him Barton when she was upset or stressed and his mistake she would never call him Clint in the moments she needed him most.

This list could go on and on, Clint realized and that he knew every little detail of her that she was willing to share with him or the world. Probably even a little beyond that. The hours passed by one by one and Clint started rocking back and forth, the guilt and weariness now truly getting to him as the adrenaline completely wore off. Coulson had excused himself after two hours of silent waiting – _"I better get to see Fury now. Don't worry, I'll explain it all. Stay here and stay strong Barton." _

Much later an employee from the medical station – probably an assistant doctor judging by his blood-soaked coat which was formerly of a sterile white – emerged from the OR. His face gave away nothing to a point where Clint thought he could be a worthy opponent for the Black Widow. He mentally prepared for everything the man could tell him, though that was probably a lie he told himself.

"I'll tell you beforehand: Agent Romanoff is still alive albeit her condition is critical. We were able to detect the various internal bleedings and were able to stop them but there was a lot to do. There was so much damage that her systemic enhancers weren't effectively working at all and if … sorry, when she becomes conscious again there could be indeed a long recovery phase for her. We are still working on getting the rod out of her abdomen and to this time, we couldn't quite detect if any vital organs have taken damage. Oh and before I forget: there's some kind of a downside."

Clint's heart nose-dived. Of course there would be complications; he shouldn't have expected anything else. "Because her body wouldn't be able to bear multiple operations going on at the same time and with the additional risk of too high blood loss we weren't able to focus on her broken leg. We just cleaned to wound and we hope to be able to fix the leg as soon as possible. Even if there's a high risk of infection we have to go for it this way."

With that the man turned around and reentered the operating room. Clint was thankful there were people like them that worked incessantly for the lives of others. Sleepy he propped his head up on his fist. He didn't want to doze off, not when Natasha's life was on the line in the room next to him, whereas the doctor told him the odds were somewhat positive and she would make it – with a vast amount of luck. Sighing slightly relieved Clint allowed himself to fall asleep – just a little.

* * *

She was literally floating around. Her body was nowhere to be found and she relished being encased in a bubble for once, barred from the cold, harsh reality. She couldn't see anything however her skin felt like she was taking a long and overdue sunbath, her ears tingled but not in an uncomfortable way. A mix of strawberry and lime coated her tongue and she decided she could take quite a liking to it. Apart from that there wasn't much more to observe but that didn't bother her the slightest. She'd never admit this openly though, but she really could use a vacation and if it was just from her own worn out body.

She didn't know how she ended up at this place where everything seemed weird and unfamiliar and what happened previously defied any explanation. Her mind was so fuzzy she had a hard time forming coherent thoughts and being in her state of dizziness she found that she just didn't want to care, not at this moment anyways.

Her bubble floated around, in this and that direction without an actual course but after some time she could make out noises in the distance. The noises were voices she realized a tick later and her spy senses started listening in – even when she was on her mind-vacation.

"_Retractor … suction tube … now forceps and scalpel … have the defi ready … clamps … more tissues!"_

What was going on? Some sort of surgery? Panic rose in her new-found chest, memories from her past crept up her mind and her peace was gone_. "Heart rate is rising … finally … good news"_

Who were they? Were they experimenting on her? Where was she anyways? _"Too quick … more sedatives!"_

She'd finally found her body again, and she didn't like it at all. If she knew how to move a muscle she'd probably twist her mouth because of the immense pain she was in. She couldn't locate it; it seemed to be everywhere and the panic in her increased rapidly. Her reflexes told her to start coping with the pain as she always did, how she was trained for but her mind for once didn't respond to them; not knowing what to do and how to deal with the waves of pain rolling through her weary body was very unsettling. _"I said more sedatives!"_

The noises grew louder until she thought someone was screaming in her ears. There was danger and it was imminent, that much she knew with certainty. When her eyes flew open she was blinded with too bright light, light blue and spherical like from a lamp it dangled over her head. _"Oh god! Quick someone narcotize her again! Where the hell is the anesthetist?"_

A wrinkled face appeared in her view, not one she could remember.  
_Who are you?_ she wanted to shout, _what are you doing to me?_ but her lips were sealed.  
So she could only look at the man who'd probably end her life soon, pleading him with her glance to let her go. _"Everything will be fine, the sedative will kick in soon." _the man spoke cautiously to her and she wanted to ask him why he denied that he would kill her.

Hopefully her death would be quick and easy, even if she didn't deserve so. A dark force pulled her back into unconsciousness but with her last of her strength she grabbed the man's hand, he needed to look into her eyes, with which she begged him to kill her now and without any other experiments. She wanted to die with at least a little dignity. Her lips mouthed a silent please before her eyes gave away to the heavy weight that pulled her down into the sweet temptation of oblivion. Just this time she didn't want to forget anymore.

* * *

"Agent Barton!" Clint's head shot up. He knew he had slept too long, way beyond midnight, the lighting was dimmed and there was no one to be seen far and wide, a state that the medical bay only reached at night on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s helicarrier. A surgeon approached him half walking, half jogging. Clint noticed that it was the same man who had informed him about Natasha's state before and that his coat was now of a sterile white again. Did this mean they finished operating on her? Was that good or bad news?

A little out of breath the young man smiled when he reached Clint. "Good news, Agent Barton! She'll officially make it! She went into cardiac arrest two times but we brought her back successfully. The rebar tore her liver when it entered her body but the cut wasn't too deep. She was lucky, otherwise she would've bled to death in less than an hour.

Her liver is now stitched up and there should be no permanent or irreversible damage and we also fixed the severe concussion of hers, there should be no problems regarding her long- or short-term memory or cognitive abilities. Her right leg – the one with the knife – has already healed up and we take this as sign of her enhancers returning back to correct functionality. But you won't believe what happened!"

The man was eager to tell Clint a story and he was curious too, despite the fact that he could sleep three days without waking up by this time. "She woke up during surgery, while we were fixing her liver. I can tell you this has happened before but normally patients go back to their daze in a matter of seconds. She stayed awake for full three minutes and I tell you the truth when I tell you that it was different than usual. She was awake! I mean fully! Her eyes darted around and she was aware of her surroundings! And when she grabbed Dr. Lin's hand he almost had a heart attack too. That's never happened before, never ever I swear! You should've seen her gaze, though. It gave me the creeps. It took a little more than the twice the dose of sedatives for normal humans to get her back to _sleep_ and by that alone we could all tell she's getting better by the minute."

Clint smiled – genuinely for the first time in weeks. Getting carried away by his happiness he stood up and impulsively hugged the man.  
"_Thank you._"


	5. Stay with me

I changed the rating, I think I'm safe with T for the moment. Should my brain conjure more violent/mature content, I'll be sure to change it again :)  
As always: reviews are welcome!

* * *

Floating in a bubble wasn't so pleasant this time because she remembered. She remembered everything and still it made no sense to her. Additional questions added up to her long list of things she needed information about. Was she dead now? Was it her fate to hover around in half-consciousness for eternity? She had to admit that she had imagined hell to be a lot more painful … and hotter. Right now she was freezing. She couldn't feel her body but the cold creeping closer to her mind unsettled her.

She couldn't tell how much time she'd spent where she was but eventually shreds of events invaded her mind. Was she making them up or were they from some memory? _A sunny country, a mission, bits of Italian rolled by. A car ride with armed men, threatening to kill her at any movement, an old confidant who became a traitor, betraying her in the worst moment possible. Someone sneaking up behind her, ineffectively drugging her with some common chloroform. Taking an unexpected hit against the back of her head so hard she would see double, tied up and interrogated desultorily until she felt someone pricking a syringe in the vein of her neck and then another two._

_She knew she was in the shit when her vision started blurring and she felt the scarce sensation of losing consciousness. The man questioning her taking an iron crowbar and the shattering crunch when he had swung it, accompanied by sharp, burning hot pain in her left leg was the last thing she could call to mind, before her eyes had closed involuntarily. She knew that wasn't the full story, there was something that happened after but no matter how hard she tried she still couldn't remember._

She no longer was able to distinguish between dreams and reality. If she was just making this up, it meant she had a mild dream compared to her usual ones. If not … _Clint!_

Just then Natasha remembered her partner. If her memory was of a real mission and a recent one too, then what had happened to Clint? Was he dead too? She knew that if the concept of heaven and hell was true, she wouldn't find him down here where she was. For sure he would've made it up there into the heavens. The thought of never seeing him again saddened her quite a lot, though. If her training had allowed her to accept friends into her life, Clint would be her friend – a very good one at that too.

Disjointed snippets of memories and sentiments drifted past her mind's eye.  
_Clint's face when he pointed a gun against her head. His eyes showed his inner struggle and at the same time his determination to fulfill his mission.  
Clint's hands when they shakily lowered his weapon, not sure if he'd die because he didn't kill her in the very first second he got the chance to.  
His posture when he tried talking her into joining S.H.I.E.L.D. and offering her to escape the clutches of the Red Room, offering her freedom; it was doubtful and unconfident but sparkling with hope. –_

_Clint's mouth when on their fourth mission he witnessed her getting shot twice, calling out for help that wasn't available. At that time nobody knew about her enhancers. She could see the fear in his electric blue eyes with those prominent light inlets, his fear of losing his partner – of losing her. She remembered how she'd coughed up a bit of blood but told him with a neutral voice that by all appearances no vital organs were damaged, how she'd patted his back comfortingly and carried on with their mission. –_

_Clint's fingers when he offered her his hand to hold on for the first time he was present when they re-broke one of her bones (her forearm in that case). They had drawn small circles on the back of her uninjured hand when she'd squeezed his so very tightly, soothing her and letting her relax wordlessly into his comfort._

_Clint's grin when he'd brought her a Black Russian to her desk (to "put some life into her sluggish form") when she'd done some paper work and shot him a confused look. After he'd explained that that's what friends did for another – little gestures of presents or amiable assiduities – the corners of his mouth had twisted up before turning into a full smirk and his eyes had glistened with that certain kind of delight that was his._

It was just in this moment that Natasha realized they'd become friends long times ago. She'd defected a year and a half ago, joining S.H.I.E.L.D. and being paired with Clint in the newly established and immediately infamous _Strike Team Delta_. Even back then she had the feeling of trust and sincerity towards him.

Obviously she didn't let those emotions display. Although she desperately wanted to show him her gratitude for everything he'd done for her, her year-long training drilling obedience into her left her as an assassin, a spy, and a killer that should under no circumstances show emotions especially not friendly ones. Every time she tried to surpass those instincts that were forced upon her, some switch in her brain flipped and the colder side of her surfaced for a short moment.

As a result of her sudden clarity she made the resolve to finally show him the complex feelings for him that had built up in her, to open up to him – given that she'd manage to escape this hellhole of a void abyss.

Speaking of escaping – it seemed to her that the darkness surrounding her had just lightened up a little bit. Was this a sign? She wondered if she really was dead or if her state was more one of a deep slumber. If it was the latter, the possibility of waking up could be imminent. Her mental strength and motivation was reinvigorated by the thought of a second chance. _A chance to make things right._

She struggled fiercely against the shady gloom, pushing it away from her inch by inch. She couldn't tell if it was a matter of seconds or years but eventually the fog lifted. She could tell by the sounds that slowly reached her and the different smells invading her. By all means she must've been in some sort of hospital, the smells gave it away. Sterile and aseptic, dry and far too clean air surrounded her, paired with hints of fresh linen. The sounds came shortly after, starting with a monotone and unnerving beeping.

Moments later she could already detect voices – no, a single voice. It seemed to rather mumble to itself. She could feel her heart literally go faster at the thought that she was indeed alive. Her second thought was directed to her exact whereabouts. Was she in the hand of an enemy? Did being in a hospital mean they experimented on her? A raft of memories full of hurt and pain flooded her brain. She didn't want this, never again. Hadn't she fought her whole life for freedom, for them to leave her alone?

She could make out that the one with the murmuring voice noted something on paper and, estimated by the sound of smooth scratching, was using a ballpoint pen. That information showed her the nearest weapon within her range, she could work with that.

Her eyes flew open and she took in her surroundings in a split second. Some ordinary whitewashed hospital room with herself tucked into the only bed and an older man sitting beside her. His gaze was averted to his clipboard, he was still taking notes. His distraction was enough for her to snatch his pen from him and – before he seemed to notice what was going on – having his head in a deathly grip between her hands, the pen pointed straight at his eye.

"Who are you and where am I?" Natasha hissed at him. In his current position she could end his life in five different ways and her left hand strangling his throat left him just enough air to answer her questions. The man had raised both his arms defensively and she wanted to restrain them with her legs when she noticed she wasn't able to move her left leg that lay under the sheets. "And what the fuck did you do to me?"

"Pl…Please let me expl …" The man never got to finish the sentence as the only door in the room crashed open. Natasha's heart took a leap at seeing Clint in the doorframe. Had he come to her rescue?

"Let go of him Tasha!" Confused she looked between the old man and her partner. Clint's face showed stress as well as relief and his calming eyes told her to trust him with his command. Slowly she released the coughing and gurgling man of her grip.

"Clint? Where are we? Why are we here? And who are they?" There were so many questions whirling around in her mind. She watched as her partner approached her bed almost cautiously and sitting down on the edge of it.

"You're safe, don't worry. We're back on the helicarrier. Doctor Lin here is the head of the team that saved your life. Maybe he can give us some time to talk alone before they can pick up their work?" The last sentence was directed at the man who nodded shortly and silently exited the room while massaging his throat that already showed bruises.

"You don't remember anything?" Confused Natasha had to shake her head, it rankled her that her memory betrayed her. She listened intently on the story Clint told her. Some details of their failed mission she could bring to mind, the rest was left to his narration that ended with "You saved my life and I don't know how I can ever repay you for this. Without you I wouldn't be here now."

In the silence that followed, words simply failed her. What could you possibly say to that? No matter what, it would sound like a cliché, so she pulled him into a tight hug without a second thought. It was the first genuine hug they shared (not the I-hug-you-because-you-got-promoted-and-I'm-proud-of-you kind of hug). His warmth was invitingly comfortable and his scent of freshly ground coffee beans and a somewhat spicy aftershave was tempting her to draw him even closer to her. She knew she could easily get used to this and if Clint was surprised by her action he hid it fairly effectively.

When she finally let go of him, neither of them knew what to say. Clint's face was faintly flushed. "I'm glad that I came by just in time that I could stop you from killing him." He laughed and it was contagious. He surely knew how to lift the mood. "The doctors told me to warn you that you could indeed feel dizzy from the drugs they gave you. They mixed up some highly dosed pain killers and you shouldn't hesitate to call for some more if they should wear off."

Upon the quizzical look on her face he carefully lifted the sheets off her left foot. It was wrapped in loose bandages and she could make out the spots of blood that had soaked their way through the thin fabric, also it was strangely misshaped. "The injuries were so severe that your enhancers stopped working. They weren't able to fix your leg yet, the loss of blood would've been too high." Natasha didn't know how to reply to this information. Were her enhancers permanently gone? She'd have to change her whole fighting techniques and tactics!

As if he could read her mind, Clint reassured her "Don't worry, they'll come back to their full powers as will you. I guess with you awake the medics will want to fix the fracture today. I know you're stubborn when it comes to this, but please, just for this once, let them sedate you."

Natasha thought about it. Every time she'd been anesthetized the outcome was horrible. Fragments of memories of countless experiments flickered by her mind's eye. At the same time she knew this was something else. She could feel herself blush.  
"Only if you'll stay with me."


	6. Of Broken Legs and Boners

Long time no see, long time no say!

I know that I'm surely not the only one to disappear for a month or so.  
**Well to make it short:** school was a bitch until the very end (but I made it! next year is hopefully the last one) and then came two weeks of vacation.

I made this chapter a tad bit longer, also there's finally a little progress in Strike Team Delta's relationship! (also, there's more to come in the next chapters)  
Hope you enjoy! Reviews are really very welcome if you have some spare time ;)

* * *

The silence was deafening, as it always was when Nick Fury was involved. Natasha didn't seem to mind though, and her face was still a little too pale. Clint had protested unsuccessfully when they were ordered to Fury's office immediately after they had fixed his partners leg. He'd been present from the moment she was narcotized (he'd held her hand until her body – trembling from nervousness – fell asleep; her hand had almost crushed his fingers when they'd injected her with some strong drugs, though he sensed it was because of fear and not of hurt) until she woke up, her mouth twisted from the pain she couldn't quite hide (though he didn't dare to address it, and Natasha herself, well in the rare case of her showing how much something hurt her by grimacing slightly, not a single word of it left her lips). The doctors told them her enhancers were still not back to normal and had prescribed her diverse drugs, which should guaranteed work.

Clint had urged her to take some of them – with success for once. When he had rolled her in her wheelchair to Fury's office (her leg was in a thick, unhandy white cast – on which he'd quickly doodled an arrow just because), she was so spaced out that she didn't even mind the other agents that eyed her with unhidden curiosity.

"So … you fucked up." Fury didn't sugarcoat it. Their mission was of great value for S.H.I.E.L.D. and after they were busted, the members of the Mafia-group had managed to escape S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar. "It's not like it was uber-difficult, it was even below your average. I want to know what exactly happened. Agent Coulson already tried to take the blame, which is ridiculous to say the least."

Clint knew his boss was royally pissed and he was able to relate to it up to a certain point but that didn't mean he had to care the slightest. "Yes, we screwed up, I'm not gonna lie. Natasha had a contact to bring her in and it seems he must've ratted her out when I wasn't around to protect her."

"Since when do you need protection from a handful of thugs?" The question was directed at Natasha but she seemed to stare right through him, her head was bent a little sideways and her eyes wide open. Fury snapped his fingers impatiently to get her attention. "I said, since when do you need protection from a couple of street thugs?" His voice had grown louder and more upset, a vein on his forehead was about to pop.

"And since when are you bald?" Natasha's retort was followed by total silence, Fury's eyes closed and Clint knew he was trying hard not to fulminate in utter rage, although he himself also tried hard to stifle a laugh, Natasha on drugs was worth seeing if not to say unmissable.

"You're dismissed. Both of you. Agent Barton, I expect your report on my desk or Agent Hill's for all I care tomorrow at six hundred. And get her back to normal for fuck's sake!" Clint didn't need to be told twice, he hurried out together with his partner's faintly squeaking wheelchair. Out of Fury's earshot they both laughed, loud and carefree.

"I guess that'll have consequences but that was totally worth it." He opted for a high five, baked Natasha granted it without a second thought. "How about we take the rest of the day off?" Natasha just nodded enthusiastically.

"Who's taking the day off?" The familiar voice was followed by the casual sleek black suit and the neatly trimmed and combed hair.  
"We are; Natasha's on a little … trip, if you know what I mean Phil. Oh and by the way, you didn't have to try and take the blame for our failure. Though, apart from Fury seeing right through it, it was a nice gesture … Don't get me wrong, I like working for S.H.I.E.L.D. and for Nick and with you and whatnot but he could've at least concentrated his anger on me. I mean it's not exactly for anyone's benefit to bitch an agent out that for one thing risked her life to save another one's and for another thing is not herself because of the exceptional strong drug punch she got just an hour before." Coulson stepped closer to Clint and patted his shoulder kindly.

"Just take good care of her Clint. I'll handle this." He flashed him a confident smile before he left, seemingly headed to where Clint and his partner just came from. Then it was just them two again, standing alone in a secluded hallway.

It was Natasha's unusual cheerful voice that finally broke the silence. "Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. has restocked their lousy bar with some Stoli." Clint hated to destroy her hopes. "Your liver is freshly patched up and drugs and alcohol isn't a good mix in your state. How about I get you to your quarter?"

"Please don't leave me alone, not tonight." Her voice had suddenly become low, almost inaudible and Clint knew she wouldn't remember any of this when she'd come to her senses but who was he to deny her wishes? So he brought her to her quarter.

He had never been in her rooms before. Sure they were built like the ones of anyone else, but it bothered him that it looked so unused and empty. It contained only the bare necessities: a tidy made bed, a small table plus chair, a waist-high wardrobe and a well-stocked cupboard with all sorts of liquor. Hadn't it been for the alcohol, Clint had thought the room to be vacant. Surely Natasha didn't feel at home in the on-base quarters on the helicarrier and it somehow dragged him down from his cheerfulness.

He decided to not broach the subject. Instead he lifted his friend off the wheelchair and into her bed, careful not to hurt her leg. Her eyes were already closing. He knew it was one of the rare possibilities to get to know her past, the stories she never told. Sure, he knew her better than anyone else and that fact alone filled his chest with pride, but even he knew little parts of her life, of her. If he questioned her now in her delirium would she remember tomorrow?

It was her husky, tired voice that got him back to the present. Only her wellbeing was of importance now, his questions could wait till another time. "Lie down with me?"

Clint was happy to oblige, his chest pressed against her small back. Yawning she reached behind her back and grabbed his hand, pulled it to her front so he would hug her. Who would've thought that highly dosed medication brought out the assassin's cuddle mood? It wasn't long until they both drifted to sleep.

A smack to his nose woke him up in the middle of the night (the digits on her buzzer showed 02:53 am). She must've hit him with her elbow. Cursing he pinched his nostrils as blood started trickling down. He freed himself from her grip and tiptoed his way to the adjacent bathroom and bumped his pinky toe in the process. Oh, how he despised being up at this ungodly hour.

When he'd stopped the bleeding, all his thoughts were focused on going back to sleep as fast as possible. So when he let himself sink back on the bed he almost couldn't catch Natasha mumbling.

"Let me go …" It was only just a whisper, but her tossing and turning around indicated that she was having a nightmare. To him her wallowing looked like she tried to wiggle free from something and in between she muttered what seemed like curses in Russian. "Leave me alone …" Cautiously he approached her closer. "Sh, Tasha everything is fine. You are here with me, it's only a bad dream!" She didn't seem to hear him, she must've been dead asleep.

Muffled shrieks started escaping her and to Clint this was enough to wake her up. His hands carefully touched her shoulders, shaking her so she would open her eyes – what she did. Just that in her hands she held a gun, her finger on the trigger and it didn't slip his attention that the safety catch was released. And her eyes, her eyes were open yes, but so shady and clouded that Clint didn't know whether she could even see him.

Slowly he raised his hands in the air, his heart beat a mile an hour. He wasn't prepared for such a situation – not with his own partner! "Tasha … Natasha you have to snap out of it! It's me, Clint Barton, your partner. You're safe and I'm here with you. I won't harm you!" Slowly some recognition filled her eyes and she blinked distraughtly. "Barton?"

With shaking – as if that wasn't reason enough to be highly concerned and alarmed – hands she lowered her weapon and eventually put it away under her pillow (who in their right mind would sleep with a loaded gun underneath their head?!). "I'm sorry." Clint waited, but no explanation came. "You can tell me, you know?"

He caught her staring at him, as if he was a stranger to her. "There's nothing to tell. It was just some bad dream. I already don't remember what it was about." They both knew that was a lie, that it was an old memory of hers. "I know exactly what you need now." Upon her raised eyebrows he just pulled her into a hug – a tight one. At first she tensed but she seemed to relax shortly after. Later no one of them could tell how long they'd stayed like this but eventually Natasha drifted asleep, Clint's guess was to blame the highly dosed drugs that caused her to lower her defense in his presence. Carefully not to wake her up again, he placed them in a lying position and covered her with all the blankets he could reach while never releasing her of his embrace.

* * *

"What do you mean_, it's her own fault_, _sir_?" The _sir_ sounded pressed, Coulson had almost hissed it. As much as he loved his work and as much as he looked up to Fury with all professional admiration his mind could muster, when Clint had told him what had happened in the private debriefing, his mood instantly switched from fuck-yeah-Natasha-is-doing-well-again-happiness to oh-no-he-didn't-rage.

"Oh, don't you give me that Coulson! She-"  
"So you mean to tell me you've never made mistakes before?!"

"Maybe I did, with trusting a former Russian to truly be on our side!" Fury was in rage mode now, too.  
"Now you watch it! She makes one wrong call after _all_ this more than successful tests and missions and your immediate reaction is giving her shit – WHILE SHE IS STILL HEALING UP AND DRUGGED TO THE LIMIT! And that's not even the whole story. Yes, she made a mistake in the course of actions but when it came down to all or nothing she risked her life so at least her partner would get out of there! She had a goddamn three feet bar right through her liver! And if that alone doesn't show you on whose side she is then you can go look for my shoe in your-"

"Enough already! I get it." Coulson in roaring rage was a really rare sight, even to Fury. And he was his best handler, coordinator and confidant, and he had taken care of the ever so effective Strike Team Delta since one and a half years ago – back when literally no one trusted the newly introduced Natasha Romanoff. Sometimes he even acted all overprotective and fatherly. "Well, maybe I've overdone it _a little bit_ with scolding her."

"Glad that we sorted that out. See you tomorrow then, _sir_." As quick as Coulson had stormed his office he disappeared again. Fury should've known better than to mess with the infamous duo (rather trio but yeah).

* * *

When the morning came Clint awoke and was alone under a pile of sheets. Natasha was nowhere to be found but he could make out the sound of Natasha showering in the bathroom. Fortunately she wasn't there when he woke up. He was sporting some impressive (not to praise himself or anything) morning wood. He was wearing his usual army-grey on-base sweatpants, they didn't do much to hide it from the world to see – or Natasha's eyes. Hurriedly he made his way towards the door, surely she wouldn't be mad if he left without her.

Just with his luck she thwarted his plans by emerging from a steaming bathroom wrapped in a black bathrobe right in that moment. He must've stand there like a deer caught in the headlights, awkwardly looking at her.

It was her who spoke up first. "Guess I'm gonna let them prescribe me some of that shit in case I ever want to get stoned as hell, because I don't remember anything from yesterday. Anything interesting happened?" The thought of telling her from her encounter with Fury in their debriefing briefly crossed his mind but he decided to just drop that subject, also their own little standoff in the middle of the night. So he just shrugged.

"How's your leg doing?" Natasha just lifted her leg to show him the slightly jagged pink scar that was left of what was a mess of blood and bones just a mere day ago.

"An hour ago I dropped off the reports at Agent Hill's desk that I wrote for both of us. Well mine is a little bit … incomplete but the rest is in yours. I stitched things together from what you told me. I figured they wanted those reports like yesterday."

It was good for Clint to see Natasha back to full health and already hard at work.  
"I guess you were the one caring for me yesterday, with you in my bed and the wheelchair that I brought back to medical. Thank you Clint, really." Without further words she stepped closer and pulled him in a _tight_ hug. A _very_ _tight_ one. "Oh."

She released him almost immediately and Clint could feel his face heat up. Though both were a little bit out of words, but it didn't slip his attention that they still were very close.

"I don't-" Whatever Natasha Romanoff wanted to say to save the situation, Clint was quicker. Later on when thinking about what the heck had gotten into him, he would steadfastly claim it was one of those _the-situatation-was-already-fucked-up-so-my-brain-said-go-for-it _moments.

They say there are little to no things to surprise _the Black Widow_.  
However, in that very moment it was Natasha Romanoff he was facing, so it _did_ surprise her when Clint's lips came passionately crashing down on hers.


End file.
